


Who the hell is Peggy?

by RobbieTurner



Series: collection of short fics from tumblr [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Winter Soldier AU, Winter Soldier!Peggy Carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/RobbieTurner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lady drunk with snow and red. </p><p>Or: a short fic about Winter Soldier!Peggy Carter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who the hell is Peggy?

**Author's Note:**

> Short fic I wrote and posted originally on tumblr inspired by this beautiful graphic (and the other one linked in the post): http://mcgrathkatie.tumblr.com/post/111023243310/peggy-as-the-winter-soldier-follow-up-to-this

The first breath drawn from shattered nothingness. And then sounds. Buzzing of humans. Pupils blown wide by the rare touch of light. Her lips painted red again.

There used to be a woman here.

When she stumbles out of her coffin there’s a squad of specialists waiting for her. She’s a naked doll, ignorant to the point it feels like she’s born again. She knows how to kill and little else.

(It’s a strange thing, but she remembers, too, how to whistle)

And so they cover her in leather and kevlar, their very own Sleeping Beauty. Back in the world princes die like flies, some killed by her. They always make her lovely. Like a parting gift for the targets, to be executed, surprisingly, by such a beautiful sword.

When she’s decent – funny word for a weapon – comes a man she recalls from pavlovian responses of her brain. He’s the one that holds her as one would a very sharp work of art. His fingers smear a little the lipstick, but it’s inconsequential. Someone will fix her right up after he’s gone. They call him Alexander Pierce. He calls her captain and she calls him sir. “Good morning, Captain.” She blinks, almost happy to know this dance. “Good morning, Sir.” The accent is still there, the r in sir barely touched. They couldn't wipe the British out of her. The next part is simple: she knows the steps. Pierce will describe a mission, giving her as little information as he can. He shows her a photo of a man with blond hair and blue eyes.

“I want confirmed death in ten hours.”

She nods, holding the photo. Her nose burns a little; there are tears in her eyes that she blinks away, confused.

 

When she’s out of the ice for long enough, some memories return slowly, blurred. There’s grass and sugar, the careful pressing of a uniform, a tablecloth wet with tea, a song half forgotten. Taste of earth and sun, a pencil, skin she touched once. A red dress.

She hates these fragments. They’re like notes out of tune in her endless symphony of death and cold. Lies that feel good. Comforts that, as far as she knows, never existed and to which she can never return. Here’s her truth: there’s someone she needs to kill in ten hours and if she doesn't they’ll send the boy with the metal arm. And then she will be drowned in white again.

 

He pulls her by her hair – longer, these days – and she groans in pain. Her knee up his stomach is fast, but not as fast as the hand that grabs her mask. They break their violent embrace and the Soldier looks at him. Steve gasps, cold rain in his veins instead of blood. The name comes easily; as if just have been one week. “Peggy?” her eyes soften for a moment so brief it could have been imagined, and then she frowns a little, mostly indifferent, almost innocent of the pain her next words cause: “Who the hell is Peggy?”

 

It’s nearly carnal, this hatred she feels for the men that touch and order her around. It’s also useless. She could kill him easily – Alexander, whose hand slapped her not two seconds ago – but it goes against the very core of her defilement. Whoever she was before this – the woman that knew the man on the bridge – wasn't obedient. Her lips tremble. “I knew him.” She says, with some sort of pride that earns her another slap. She likes the name Peggy. It sounds sweet. Like resistance. She looks up at Alexander, and repeats, angry and lost:

“But I knew him.”

He looks at her for a moment, and signs.

“Wipe her clean.”

 

So she savours his image one last time: tall and blonde, devastated. A prince yet to be killed.

By his side, has she known horrors? The spark of herself fades as the electricity works its erasing force. Has she known (his) kisses? He’s only a sound now, and that too is soon gone. His lips caressing her name like a slipping ghost.

_Peggy?_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very appreciated <3 English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes


End file.
